There is a dish that was spawned
In a little town called Batticoloa
Which radiated to conquer the island nation
Folk who indulge in chilies to wound their buds
And chicken bone to get lodged inside the throat
And a little nausea in the tummy
That unlimits flow

And an excursion to a bedlam of dodgy hygiene
Is when man learns the chemistry of taste
In the physics of the devouring mandible
And the flavor of this savory hodge-podge
Creates an unusual endearment
We call a hangover of sorts

Pain is no forgone conclusion
It is a tradition of pieces of wheat flour
Embellished with chilies, vegies, an egg and chicken
To be another commoner for mere 30 minutes
Indulgence personified, in a community of shreds

It only takes a meal to fall from aristocracy
To become a commoner. The great famine
Knows no cake just a serving of flour crumbs,
Sieved through teeth.
After all, what is more beautiful
Than metallic cymbals making a racket
For a worldly salivation.

Rice will always be our staple
The sane and constant, while koththu
Is the madness of our shredded DNA
Evangelizing a slender roti
Into a devotional cult.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.